[Good, he'd praise him, if Emet-Selch hadn't just taken to his lips. Emet-Selch probes for taste, for the hint of his come, and Mettaton parts his lips in offering — a sign of how readily he'd take to the Ascian as well, how he'd lick and touch and bite and consume every square inch of him. Emet-Selch understands yet the other aspect to this kiss, an aspect he'd hoped for: he repositions himself upon his lap as though in survey, and he budges atop his cock for a stiffness that could have only gone away for moments, only to return, and only to intensify, at this rate.
Emet-Selch knew it. He knew it and he hears his breath taper off, only for him to lick more passionately at his tongue, to nip at his lip. Mettaton imagines him licking so broadly at his cock, at the sensation of teeth taking to any part of a body so difficult to pierce.
There's a chance, he considers in that moment, that Emet-Selch will remain. That he'll stay seated on his cock and rock himself into him, tightening in rhythmic pulses over his length as though coaxing from him another release. The feeling of come already saturating his lover's body is slick and hot around his length, and... he could, couldn't he? He could stay seated in his lap. Emet-Selch could keep rocking his hips, keep jostling his cock, endlessly pull and knead at the head of his erection, fuck himself and stroke Mettaton off, taking load after load. Mettaton would fill him until he could never feel empty.
Yet his lover pulls back. He watches him, soaks in his appearance, and takes a breath. Mettaton, then, is also taken by the sight of Emet-Selch: drips of come still dry upon his abdomen, the muscle of his chest supple and inviting enough to want to kiss and suck, to tongue and bite, somewhere he hadn't tended to as much during their time together right now.
Could they make it to the shower? Mettaton is no Faun: it wasn't as though he was weak to sex. He's merely possessing of a libidinous appetite that couldn't be so easily quelled, one that could ignite and inspire the robot rather than dominate or distract him in turn. No, his desire was his to direct and harness, and sometimes it engulfed him, but always with a heated focus. His lover manages, at least, to stabilize himself against his body, both of them aware of how difficult a task it would be to get them there. If Mettaton had to carry him, would he be capable of it before deciding that it was a greater reward to take him then and there?
The robot braces himself. He closes his eye and exhales once his lover parts from his lips, parts from him, feeling him lift even from his lap... A regrettable maneuver, but it's one he would have to endure. He feels his lover's body stroke him from root to tip, a tight, clamping muscle to rub over the whole of him, and even Mettaton's made to bite his lip and roll his ankles just to cope. There's an aching pause at the glans as though Emet-Selch has to deliberate, has to consider slamming back down upon his hips, before he tugs himself the rest of the way off. Mettaton's shaft is left to the air, and he makes a short grunt of protest through his bitten lip as he shifts his hips uncomfortably, eyeing Emet-Selch's hips.
Dreaming about how he could grip them, guide him back down onto his cock, push him down into the bed once more, and...
The Puca likes his lover pressing his hands to his shoulders. It's a grounding touch, something he can pay attention to while his lover hovers over him with his legs still spread. Parting like this in its initial stages is the most dangerous part of all, and what should be a speedy departure becomes one where his lover's frozen. Immediately, Mettaton's ears spring up. He gives Emet-Selch a curious look, one that quickly becomes imploring as he realizes what's happening, what he's to expect even before he glances it for himself.
He swallows; he watches Emet-Selch bite at his lip, watches his eyes, glazed and curtained heavily by his lid, feels his legs tremble, and it's a sight in itself to have his cock aching, standing further to attention.
What a rush it feels, to be so swiftly made alert. He has no brain to deprive of blood, but it still feels like a gathering of pressure in his developed cyborg body that need relief, needs to be pet and stroked and sucked, squeezed and released. When he exhales again, it's through a shudder. His attention darts south, and he sees for himself his lover's thighs made to bear the spill from his body: thick come marks him, as though his body's showing off how marked and claimed and fucked it is. Had they somehow remained in that basement, it would be a sight for all to take heed of, to know how used and claimed his Bonded was by him.
His ears are tall, leaning, then suddenly akimbo, both of them flopped to the right and obeying the pull of gravity in his loss of sense. It's among the most of obscene shows, intimate and suggestive beyond being merely suggestive; it omits the fucking part and skips right to the graphic sight of Emet-Selch's body dripping with Mettaton's come, still hovering over his attentive cock, nude and bruised and bitten and biting at his lip, moaning on a raw voice.
Mettaton's gaze goes equally bleary. His lips are parted, his body trembling, his hands reaching for Emet-Selch's hips in his desperation as he meets his gaze. No, he couldn't think to resist this. He couldn't let Emet-Selch take a step away from him like this — he couldn't bear to leave him empty, to let him be empty, and Emet-Selch could be made so full that he'd compliment and praise him even on whispers.
Claws hook onto Emet-Selch's hips and he feels guided by primal instinct alone when he drags him back down, seating him upon the swollen head of his erection. His body hips roll, gaze positively alight in his need even while hazy and wanting; and Mettaton presses the glans to Emet-Selch's all over again, feeling it slick and hot with come, each push and prod at him wet and sticky. The idol moans, desperation in his timbre.
How quickly he's gone from semi-hard to fully rigid, aching and hot and needy. Emet-Selch's thighs are still for him to gaze upon, drips of come having escaped and drifting so visibly down his thigh, further and further beyond... Mettaton's hands are occupied, dipping the head of his thick cock into this newfound wetness, an ineffective sort of stopper for his body.]
Mmn— Hades, ah...
[That hazy gaze of his sharpens, darkens, yet it brightens keenly. He's enraptured by the sight of his lover's cock, his thighs framing Mettaton's erection and painted in come, and a low noise sounds from his throat. His words are droning and near hypnotized in his absolute, intoxicating want, his thrusts incapable of stopping.]
no subject
Emet-Selch knew it. He knew it and he hears his breath taper off, only for him to lick more passionately at his tongue, to nip at his lip. Mettaton imagines him licking so broadly at his cock, at the sensation of teeth taking to any part of a body so difficult to pierce.
There's a chance, he considers in that moment, that Emet-Selch will remain. That he'll stay seated on his cock and rock himself into him, tightening in rhythmic pulses over his length as though coaxing from him another release. The feeling of come already saturating his lover's body is slick and hot around his length, and... he could, couldn't he? He could stay seated in his lap. Emet-Selch could keep rocking his hips, keep jostling his cock, endlessly pull and knead at the head of his erection, fuck himself and stroke Mettaton off, taking load after load. Mettaton would fill him until he could never feel empty.
Yet his lover pulls back. He watches him, soaks in his appearance, and takes a breath. Mettaton, then, is also taken by the sight of Emet-Selch: drips of come still dry upon his abdomen, the muscle of his chest supple and inviting enough to want to kiss and suck, to tongue and bite, somewhere he hadn't tended to as much during their time together right now.
Could they make it to the shower? Mettaton is no Faun: it wasn't as though he was weak to sex. He's merely possessing of a libidinous appetite that couldn't be so easily quelled, one that could ignite and inspire the robot rather than dominate or distract him in turn. No, his desire was his to direct and harness, and sometimes it engulfed him, but always with a heated focus. His lover manages, at least, to stabilize himself against his body, both of them aware of how difficult a task it would be to get them there. If Mettaton had to carry him, would he be capable of it before deciding that it was a greater reward to take him then and there?
The robot braces himself. He closes his eye and exhales once his lover parts from his lips, parts from him, feeling him lift even from his lap... A regrettable maneuver, but it's one he would have to endure. He feels his lover's body stroke him from root to tip, a tight, clamping muscle to rub over the whole of him, and even Mettaton's made to bite his lip and roll his ankles just to cope. There's an aching pause at the glans as though Emet-Selch has to deliberate, has to consider slamming back down upon his hips, before he tugs himself the rest of the way off. Mettaton's shaft is left to the air, and he makes a short grunt of protest through his bitten lip as he shifts his hips uncomfortably, eyeing Emet-Selch's hips.
Dreaming about how he could grip them, guide him back down onto his cock, push him down into the bed once more, and...
The Puca likes his lover pressing his hands to his shoulders. It's a grounding touch, something he can pay attention to while his lover hovers over him with his legs still spread. Parting like this in its initial stages is the most dangerous part of all, and what should be a speedy departure becomes one where his lover's frozen. Immediately, Mettaton's ears spring up. He gives Emet-Selch a curious look, one that quickly becomes imploring as he realizes what's happening, what he's to expect even before he glances it for himself.
He swallows; he watches Emet-Selch bite at his lip, watches his eyes, glazed and curtained heavily by his lid, feels his legs tremble, and it's a sight in itself to have his cock aching, standing further to attention.
What a rush it feels, to be so swiftly made alert. He has no brain to deprive of blood, but it still feels like a gathering of pressure in his developed cyborg body that need relief, needs to be pet and stroked and sucked, squeezed and released. When he exhales again, it's through a shudder. His attention darts south, and he sees for himself his lover's thighs made to bear the spill from his body: thick come marks him, as though his body's showing off how marked and claimed and fucked it is. Had they somehow remained in that basement, it would be a sight for all to take heed of, to know how used and claimed his Bonded was by him.
His ears are tall, leaning, then suddenly akimbo, both of them flopped to the right and obeying the pull of gravity in his loss of sense. It's among the most of obscene shows, intimate and suggestive beyond being merely suggestive; it omits the fucking part and skips right to the graphic sight of Emet-Selch's body dripping with Mettaton's come, still hovering over his attentive cock, nude and bruised and bitten and biting at his lip, moaning on a raw voice.
Mettaton's gaze goes equally bleary. His lips are parted, his body trembling, his hands reaching for Emet-Selch's hips in his desperation as he meets his gaze. No, he couldn't think to resist this. He couldn't let Emet-Selch take a step away from him like this — he couldn't bear to leave him empty, to let him be empty, and Emet-Selch could be made so full that he'd compliment and praise him even on whispers.
Claws hook onto Emet-Selch's hips and he feels guided by primal instinct alone when he drags him back down, seating him upon the swollen head of his erection. His body hips roll, gaze positively alight in his need even while hazy and wanting; and Mettaton presses the glans to Emet-Selch's all over again, feeling it slick and hot with come, each push and prod at him wet and sticky. The idol moans, desperation in his timbre.
How quickly he's gone from semi-hard to fully rigid, aching and hot and needy. Emet-Selch's thighs are still for him to gaze upon, drips of come having escaped and drifting so visibly down his thigh, further and further beyond... Mettaton's hands are occupied, dipping the head of his thick cock into this newfound wetness, an ineffective sort of stopper for his body.]
Mmn— Hades, ah...
[That hazy gaze of his sharpens, darkens, yet it brightens keenly. He's enraptured by the sight of his lover's cock, his thighs framing Mettaton's erection and painted in come, and a low noise sounds from his throat. His words are droning and near hypnotized in his absolute, intoxicating want, his thrusts incapable of stopping.]
Lick... Clean it, and lick it up...